Seven Sisters
by AlwaysFidelius
Summary: AU: John Watson, an Army medic, returns from the Middle East to London's military government. There, the eccentric figure of Sherlock Holmes pulls Watson into the world of detective work, alongside a group of both kind and mysterious characters.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first attempt at a Sherlock AU...I'm not sure how this will turn out, but feel free to let me know what you think of it! Disclaimer: I don't own 'Sherlock'.**

Chapter One

"Seven Sisters"

London

Winter was coming. John Watson walked north towards the neighborhood of Seven Sisters, leaning into a heavy wind. The evening was dreary and cold, and charcoal-colored clouds promised rain later on. A plastic shopping bag swayed at his side, its light load hardly a burden: John Watson, only recently returned to London, was running out of money. He'd had to root through his pocket at the Tesco, paid for a loaf of bread and two apples and a carton of milk with change found in his back pocket. If he kept this up, he'd be homeless by December.

The Seven Sisters Motel was a small place, rundown, hunkered on some dreary anonymous street corner between a strip club and a tattoo parlor. Watson climbed the dank stairs, shouldered open the door of his room. It was small and dim and cheerless, furnished only with a narrow little cot-like bed and a desk with a plastic chair. There was, however, a mini-fridge that smelled of sour milk and probably something dead—but was still in working order—and this was where John Watson put his scant groceries.

He went to the desk, pulled his old laptop from the drawer and opened a writing document. The curser blinked at the top of the page, taunting him. Upon return from the Middle East, Watson had made himself a promise to record his memories in a sort of diary. So far, he had not written a single word.

It would not be difficult to write the happenings of each day, Watson thought, but oh-so-_boring_. His fingers lingered on the keys. He really ought to write something.

_November 10_

_Nothing happens to me._

There. Watson leaned back, stared hard at the computer screen. It was bright against the dim room. Not for the first time, John Watson felt empty.

He went into the tiny bathroom and took a short, cold shower, came out and dressed in sweatpants and a jumper. Attempted to shake the hollow feeling that had trailed him since his return to Heathrow airport. The day that he had come back from the Middle East. The sky too hard, to gray, the crowds too dense. Walking into a Tesco near Trafalgar Square and staring at the rows of garishly colored foodstuffs. Walking home that day, he had felt suddenly detached from the city's other residents. There had been military police standing around on the street corners, armed to the teeth. He would have once saluted them, maybe nodded, smiled thinly. Now he turned away when he saw them. He did not belong to them, and yet they were the only people with whom he belonged.

Darkness fell early, and it was a total sort of darkness, and Watson went to bed long before he felt truly tired. He lay there on top of the blankets for a long time, on his back, watching the flash of the strip club's neon sign. Throbbing music came through the thin walls. In the hotel room next door, mattress springs squeaked and he could hear distant noises of pleasure.

Laying there in the half-light, the empty feeling overtook him. John Watson closed his eyes, and drifted into an unsettling sleep.

_A marketplace. Morning. The sky a blue too bright. Sun in the sky, burning a hole in his eyelids. Soldiers. Black uniforms. Friends. They walked in a single-file line, guns in their hands. A truck parked between the market stalls. A man climbing out. Heavy coat, too heavy for the dry heat. Seeing the man, knowing in an instant. Trying to scream, to warn. Explosion. Seeing it from a distance. An arm on the roadside, pavement wet with blood. On his hands and knees, pressing hands to still chests, unable to breath. Sick. Everything going white. The dry heat closing in like an inescapable blanket. Screaming. Another explosion, knowing that death was close at hand, seeing the bomb, seeing the bullet, seeing death coming closer coming closer almost there—_

"Ohgodno!"

Watson woke with a jolt, propelled upright by some invisible force. He was alone in the dark hotel room. The strip club next door was shut down, but the neon sign still flashed silently over his face, his blankets. It was yellow and blue and kind of orange. He was breathing hard.

For a long time, Watson lay in the semi-darkness, on his back, on top of the thin plaid blankets. He waited for his breath to return to normal.

There was a gun in a drawer in the table beside his bed, and Watson felt both safe and unsafe with it there. Safe, because there was only one person who could reach that gun and fire it. Unsafe, because that one person was him.

He did not trust his mind enough to sleep again. The computer on the desk was still and silent. The world beyond the window was vast and cold and dreary. The strip club sign blinked silently.

John Watson inhaled and exhaled. _Start from there._ He did not close his eyes again. There was frost on the window.

Winter was coming.

* * *

><p>It was noon on a gray Saturday when he saw Mike Stamford. Watson had taken a walk at the nearby marketplace, under a canopy of dark trees. His leg ached. He used the cane but hated it. The psychologist had said that it was all in his mind, but Watson did not want to believe her. It made him sound sick, disturbed. He did not want to be sick or disturbed.<p>

"John?" The man came out of a bodega with a paper bag in his hand. He had put on weight and wore a floppy hat. He flagged Watson down somewhat frantically. "John Watson?"

Watson froze, suspicion leaping into his mind like a fast dark animal. He was poised to run (as if he could have gotten far with the cane...) but he recognized the face beneath the hat.

"Mike Stamford!"

They shook hands.

"I thought you were..." Mike Stamford glanced around nervously. "Involved in the conflict. Overseas."

"I was." Watson said. "Not a soldier," He added quickly, because these days being a soldier or policeman was bad news. "Medic. That's all."

"You're walking with a cane." Mike said, and gestured.

"Got shot," Watson replied, awkwardly. "It's not so bad."

"I'm sorry."

"Don't be." _At least it got me out of the that hellhole, _he wanted to add, but refrained. There was a soldier on the nearest corner, watching them with narrowed eyes. Maybe, Watson hoped, he was just bored.

"Well," Mike said, "You're back in London now."

"Yes."

"Where are you living?"

"Motel, around the corner."

"That crappy place?" Mike whistled. "Get yourself a flat, John."

"I wish I could." Watson longed for a fireplace, for a comfortable bed, for a real kitchen with a sink and dishwasher. "Can't afford it on an Army pension, though."

"You know something?" Mike said, and did not wait for Watson to ask what. "I know a chap who's asking around."

"Really?" Watson felt a small spark of hope. "Wonderful."

"Want to meet him?"

"Sure." And they set off through the streets together, under the watchful eyes of the soldiers on the corner and the cameras mounted on roofs and eaves and lampposts. Always watching. Always.

* * *

><p>The hospital had once been a grand old building in the center of the city, a place of learning and healing. That, however, was the Bart's of John Watson's day. It was now a crumbling facade, a grim, rundown building crouched on a street corner. In London's society these days, hospitals were not places of healing. They were places where people went to die.<p>

Mike Stamford headed straight for the morgue. It was a chilling room, vast and brutally white, deep underground. The cold seeped into Watson's bones, and he very nearly shivered. The smell of death pressed close around the, damp and stinking.

A pretty young girl was standing over the corpse of an old man, her face drawn. Mike waved to her, airy.

"Hello, Molly!"

"Hello, Mike." She cast a frightened look at John. "Who's he? Personnel without clearance can't be down here."

"It's alright," Mike said genially. "He's an old friend. We went through school together."

"Oh." The girl, Molly, nodded quickly. "Okay."

She was quite young, but her face was pale and serious. Her brown hair was pulled back. She had nice eyes, sort of hazel.

"Molly Hooper," Molly said.

"John Watson."

They exchanged quick, cheerless smiles. Watson was glancing around the morgue, marveling over how much it had changed. The doors slid open suddenly, hissing loudly, and a tall figure in a long coat swept in. Watson worried for a moment that this was some sort of administrator who was going to have them all thrown out, but then Mike said,

"Sherlock!"

"Mike," The tall man said, almost flippant, and turned to Molly Hooper. "Have you got the lab report back?"

"Natural causes." She said timidly.

"No, it wasn't." Tall and Mysterious said loudly; Molly pressed her lips together. "Honestly, Molly Hooper...is the government paying you well for your ignorance?"

"Sherlock..." Molly began, almost pleadingly. Watson felt that he ought to speak up on this poor girl's behalf when Mike Stamford crossed the room in three easy strides and clapped the tall man on the shoulder.

"John, this is Sherlock Holmes. He's got a flat over on Baker Street, and he's been casting about for a flatmate for quite some time."

Watson surveyed his potential flatmate from a distance: Sherlock Holmes cut an imposing figure—tall and thin, dressed in a dark suit and coat. His was a thin, severe face, gray eyes exceedingly sharp against pale skin. High cheekbones and dark hair only added to the strange intensity of his appearance.

"Very good." Sherlock said at once. "We'll meet at 221b Baker Street at nine o'clock tomorrow morning. Please don't be late." He unzipped a body bag with great purpose and examined the corpse within. Molly Hooper hovered anxiously behind him, wringing her hands. Watson sensed that the conversation was over.

"Jolly good!" Mike Stamford announced, and all but ushered John through the door. As they stepped into the boxy little lift and rose steadily upwards, away from the morgue, he turned to Watson. "He's a bit eccentric sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

"Well," Mike shrugged. "Most of the time. All of the time."

_Wonderful._ Sherlock Holmes certainly was a strange man, Watson thought. Probably would turn out to be a horrible flatmate. Still, he figured, a nice flat on Baker Street sure as hell beat living in a crappy motel in Seven Sisters.

"Thanks," He told Mike, and they shook hands outside the hospital. "Thanks very much." He meant it.

They parted ways then, and John Watson returned to Seven Sisters on foot. He felt considerably cheerful, despite the gloomy weather and the memories of the Middle East and the military policemen on the corners.

Perhaps things would start looking up, now. Perhaps he would be able to rebuild his life from the ruins of the past. It would take time, certainly, and be a bit painful, like ripping off an old band-aid...but maybe, just maybe, John Watson's future was not completely hopeless after all.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: What did you all think? Leave your thoughts/criticism in a review! (Also, if you would like something clarified shoot me a P.M!) I'll be giving more background within the next few chapters! Thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys! Here's the second chapter! It pretty much clears up this confusing AU society that they live in! Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Alas, alas...**

Chapter Two

Nine o'clock the following morning saw John Watson climbing the front stoop of 221 Baker Street. It was a nice place, he thought, if not a bit bleak. Of course, it was far nicer than the motel in Seven Sisters; Watson rang the doorbell, rocked back on his heels, and waited. Presently, he heard light footfalls on the other side, and then the door was opened slowly by a kindly-looking older woman. She eyed him with something close to suspicion, but managed to look friendly while doing so.

"Hello, dearie," Wiping her hands on a floral apron, "Are you John Watson?"

"Yes, ma'am." He gave her a smile, albeit slightly thin. She opened the door a little wider.

"Come in. Sherlock's been waiting for you all morning."

"I hope I haven't kept him."

"No, no!" She ushered him into a dim little hallway, chatting merrily. "He's always up at odd hours, waiting for _something_, he's a bit funny like that." Stopping, she extended a weathered hand. "I'm Mrs. Hudson, the landlady."

"John Watson," Watson said, although she already knew. "Pleased to meet you."

"So polite!" Mrs. Hudson said brightly, and led him up a set of narrow, creaky stairs and into an equally narrow, dim hallway. There were several doors, one of them marked 221b. It was here that Mrs. Hudson left him and hurried back downstairs, so John raised his fist and knocked lightly.

The door was flung open at once, and standing on the other side was Sherlock Holmes himself; he had shed the sweepingly long coat and wore only a button-down shirt and pants. Still, there was an imposing air about him, and impressive but almost threatening air. Watson stepped into the flat.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock queried, turning suddenly to face Watson.

"Sorry, what?"

"The violin. You'll be moving in, so you ought to know that I play often. Not particularly well, but often."

"I didn't say anything about..."

"But you will be. You're living in Seven Sisters at the moment, having recently returned from the Middle East, and on a military pension you can't afford anything else. I'd say that you'd most certainly leap at the chance to live here. I agree, it's quite nice."

John opened his mouth to speak, but found himself at a loss for words. Instead, he looked around the flat. It was very nice, indeed: there was a soft chair, and rugs underfoot, and the wallpaper was clean. The kitchen, he saw, was crowded with what appeared to be various scientific experiments.

"Yes," He said at last. "Yeah, I'd be glad to move in."

"Very good." Sherlock said briskly, as if he had expected no other answer. "You can bring your things around tomorrow."

"Great." John watched his new flatmate with growing apprehension. How the _bloody hell_ had Sherlock known where he was staying, where he had come from, his profession? Had the tall, mysterious Sherlock Holmes been secretly stalking John Watson? It was all a bit frightening.

The door opened once more, and Mrs. Hudson came in. She gave John a warm smile and then puttered about the apartment for a bit, tutting whenever she saw a mess.

"Sherlock, dear, this place is awful!" She opened the fridge, sniffed, cringed, and closed it again. "John won't want to live here if you keep up like this!"

"Oh, he will," Sherlock said carelessly. Mrs. Hudson looked unconvinced.

"Well, I'll get the upstairs bedroom ready," She said, then quickly added, "Only if you'll be needing it, though."

"Of course we'll need it." Watson heard her implication clearly and felt horrified. "Thanks, Mrs. Hudson."

"Of course, dearie." She went out again. Sherlock was standing before the window, smoking casually. His profile was sharp against the wan yellow light of mid-morning.

"She's very kind, Mrs. Hudson." John said. Sherlock pulled the cigarette from between his lips and exhaled. Smoke drifted overhead in an undulating gray cloud. It was almost hypnotizing.

"I should warn you, John, that I'm not the most pleasant of flatmates. I'm always up at odd hours, practicing the violin, coming and going, that sort of thing."

"I won't mind." Watson said quickly. He was sure that he could handle it, especially after the hardships of life overseas. Living with some weird shut-in type was a sight better than dodging IEDs in Iraq and Afghanistan. He still felt decidedly unsettled, however, by Sherlock's swift analysis of him, and couldn't help but question it.

"Sorry to be a skeptic," He began, "But how the _hell_ did you know..."

"Your shoes are scuffed and muddy around the edges, but it hasn't rained in the past two days. That means someplace where there's a leak in the pipe system, most likely: Seven Sisters has recently had a burst main pipe, anyone who watches the new would know that. Seven Sisters, so you're hard-up for money at the moment. You carry yourself like a soldier...clearly a military man, and you've got a tan, but only on your hands and face and neck. So you've been overseas. Recent conflicts in Iraq and Afghanistan, so there you have it. Affording London on a military pension is a struggle, so you're out looking for a flatmate to share the rent with." Sherlock Holmes shot Watson a thin, humorless smile.

"Impressive," Watson breathed.

"Hardly." Sherlock said briskly. "I'll see you tomorrow, then? Ten o'clock. I don't expect that you have many personal items to bring around."

"Not many," John said. He was still not entirely convinced that Sherlock wasn't a mad stalker, but that monologue had certainly been...well, impressive.

He left then, walked back to Seven Sisters beneath a rainy sky. Mist came and curled around the buildings, lending a dreary look to the already rundown neighborhood. John thought as he walked, thought long and hard about the past and the present and the future.

* * *

><p><em>He had been a kid when Dad went off to fight the Riots. There had been smaller riots in London before, but they were quickly tamped down. Not this time. America had been living under a military government since the Cold War, and then there was Russia and Germany and France with <em>their _governments, and suddenly England was the odd one out with Parliament and the Prime Minister. _

_People were unhappy. They didn't want to live under an iron fist. People like that scared John. He didn't understand grown-up politics yet. Maybe he never would—Mother certainly didn't; she tried to explain what was happening in simple terms, but John could tell that she didn't understand politics any better than he did._

_"Say goodbye to your father, now." Mother pushed John gently towards the door. Dad was standing there, framed in pale gray light. He wore military fatigues and a grim but determined expression. _

_"When are you gonna come home?" John resisted the urge to cling to his father's shirt. He was nine years old, almost ten._

_"As soon as I can, kid." Dad picked him up then, despite the fact that John wasn't a baby anymore, and carried him on his shoulder to the garden gate. The sun was setting. When Mother was out of earshot, Dad whispered, close to John's ear,_

_"Be brave for me, kid. For your mother, too, hear? Take good care of her while I'm gone."_

_At the time, John had put on a stiff brave face and hugged Dad goodbye and promised him that he would, he _would_ make him proud, he would be brave. Looking back, John realized that Dad had known that he wouldn't be coming back. He had wanted to make sure that John would be brave in the face of danger, as the world changed around them._

_Mother had said her own goodbyes to Dad. They had kissed for a long time at the gate. John looked away because kissing was gross. He put his hands in his pockets and Dad came over and they hugged and John said goodbye again. Then Dad went down the road to the bus station and they never saw him again._

_..._

_Things changed after Dad's death. In small ways and big ways. Mother cried a lot and drank a lot and sometime she didn't seem to recognize John. Britain became a military government like America and Germany. The police were now part of the military, and the firefighters, and hospitals, too. Parliament was dissolved. There was no more Prime Minister. Soldiers patrolled the streets at dawn and dusk and in between. School was no longer fun. The teachers insisted on giving lengthy lectures about obeying the government. History was the worst, because they painted a brutal picture of democracy. John didn't understand. He did know, though, that he didn't feel hatred for the military like the rioters had. He did not particularly love it, either._

_John had once wanted to, with all of his heart, grow up to be a soldier. Dad always talked about the old days, when America and Britain had gone to war with each other. There had been other wars after that, and in America and England it was honorable to serve your country. People liked soldiers. They looked up to them. _

_Now, people didn't like the military, or the government. England, which had once been a bright country, was now bleak and gray. It seemed to rain far more often. Sometimes, at night, when Mother was asleep in the next room, John would cry. He would sob into a pillow, or his hands, and wish more than anything that Dad was not dead. But it was Dad who had told him to be brave, and so John Watson would wake early the next morning and scrub the tear stains from his cheeks with cold water. He would dress in his school uniform and go to school and play football with the fellows after class. He grew up fast._

_He didn't mean to become a soldier. There were conflicts in the Middle East, and soldiers were going off to 'patrol' the area. There were bombs. John was due to graduate from school soon. He wanted to go to university very badly, but there was no money for that. He did not have extraordinary grades and therefore could not get a scholarship. The army was the easy way out. John took it._

_Mother cried when he told her. Then she became angry, and then she just got drunk. John promised her that he would be okay. He was going to be a medic. Training was hard. It was grueling. He had strong arms and legs from playing footy, though, and a strong heart from growing up quickly. He made it through training with little difficulty. _

_He went away to the Middle East. It was horrible. There were IEDs and bombs and a man in John's unit got himself blown up by a suicide bomber in a marketplace. His name had been Rogers. There wasn't a body to ship home to his family. Kids died, too. At night John could not put their faces and screams out of his mind. He came back to England a changed man._

* * *

><p>The rain had begun to fall in earnest by the time that John entered Seven Sisters. The neighborhood looked, if possible, even worse when it was slick with rainfall. A young woman came out of an alleyway and winked at him. She looked saucy.<p>

"Hey, mister." She wore a short skirt and something that probably qualified as a shirt but didn't look like it. She was very thin. "You look like you could blow off some steam."

She winked again.

"No," John said quickly. "No, thank you. No." She was very young, probably in her early twenties. Her eyes were pale and sad. "You shouldn't be out in the cold."

"Ain't got nowhere else to go." She sounded testy. "Look, do you want to screw or not?"

"No." John said. "I have a hotel room, just there." He pointed. "Come inside. Dry off."

She looked at him as if he were mad. John understood why. But he knew, he knew of all people, how it felt to be lonely and sad and trapped in a life that you did not want. He knew how it felt to be ignored and average and feel empty. The least he could do was offer her a place to stay for the night.

She stared at him warily.

"You ain't, like, a serial killer or anything?" Sounding dubious.

"No." John promised. "Not a serial killer. I'm just trying to help you out." That sounded shifty. The girl shrugged. She didn't seem to care if he was a serial killer anymore, because she followed him up the street.

As soon as they entered the hotel's stairwell, she warmed up to John and became chatty. Watson thought that maybe she was talking so much because she was scared.

"My name's Raine." She said as they climbed the dim staircase and went into Watson's room. "That's not my street name. My street name is Shauna Raine, so if you screw me that's what I tell you I'm called. I'm not from London. I'm from up north. Kind of near Scotland, you know?"

"I guessed," John said, and when she looked frightened he added, "Your accent."

"Oh. Yeah. People hear it and think I'm just some dumb bimbo streetwalker."

_No, people think that you're dumb because you're a prostitute. _John did not say this, of course. He understood the feeling of being forced into something.

"I came down here to work. Be a singer. Didn't really work out." Rain said brightly. "So one night I was walking home from job scouting and this bloke pulls up in a car, tells me he'll pay me ten pounds to suck hi—"

"Wow." John said quickly, because he didn't really want to hear where this was headed.

"Yeah. I know." Rain smirked. "So I did. I figured, hey, what the hell, ain't nothing I haven't done before. Only difference is, I was doing it for some money. Fell into hooking after that, you know? It's easy to do." She looked at Watson as if expecting him to understand. "I didn't find a pimp, though. I hear that's important. I get a lot of business around here, though."

"Do you want to take a shower?" John asked. "It's in there."

"I haven't got any other clothes." Rain said, and stared him down.

"Borrow some of mine." John offered. Mentally, he slapped himself. Jesus! She could have STDs, she could have a million horrible diseases, she could...

No. He understood. It was strange and sad but he understood. John gave her some pajama pants and a shirt. She went into the bathroom and the water ran for a long time. Rain came out with damp hair, smelling like soap.

"Thanks," She said. She was pretty, but had a sad look about her. A trapped look. Her skin was very pale, not freckled at all. She approached Watson very slowly, like a cat stalking down prey. She smiled a half-smile. "I really mean it."

She put a hand on his shoulder and pushed his backwards, towards the bed. Watson realized where this was going. He sidestepped her.

"Stop." John said, and meant it. "Come on. You're, what? Twenty-two?"

"Twenty-one." She looked down.

"You don't need to pay me in _sex_." He told her firmly. "Have a little self-respect."

That was a bit cruel. Rain went and sat in the plastic chair and began to cry softly. She looked pitiful, wearing men's clothing and with her damp hair hanging down around her shoulders.

"I know." She said. "I didn't mean...I mean, I did, but I thought you'd want...me."

"I don't." He said.

Rain looked at him. "Are you gay or something?"

"If I wanted to sleep with someone," Watson said softly, "I wouldn't be paying for it. You shouldn't do this. Get another job." Wow. That sounded stupid. Still, he was a doctor and it was his duty to warn her. "You could get STDs, you know. AIDS. You could die like this."

"Oh, yeah?" She fished around in the heap of her discarded clothing. "You got a better suggestion?"

He didn't reply.

"I don't even know your name." Rain said suddenly. He smiled, a half-smile that was only half-real.

"John. John Watson."

* * *

><p><strong>Ta da! And things got really AU here, so I hope it's not too confusing! Tell me what y'all think of this chapter, and another one is coming up!<strong>


	3. Chapter 3

**Hey guys! I know that chapter two might have been weird and short and the ending was odd, but I was in a rush and didn't edit very much. However, chapter three is here! :) Hope that you like it! Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, nor am I making any profit from this.**

Chapter Three

"That'll be three pounds." The tired man at the convenience store extended a chapped palm. John fished in his pocket, dug out three pounds, handed the money over. The tired man dropped a tube of toothpaste and a stick of deodorant into a plastic bag and pushed them across the counter. Watson took the bag. The store was very narrow and very small and smelled of chemicals. It was hunkered on the corner, near the hotel, lit by florescent lights and a garish neon sign. There were slatted iron bars on the windows. John put the bag in his jacket pocket and went out into the rainy night.

The streetlight shone eerily against the curtains of falling rain. They cut yellow circles out of the dark sky. A policeman and soldier stood side by side under a shop's striped awning, taking shelter from the rain.

When John returned to the hotel room, he discovered Rain asleep on the bed. Water streaked the windows, tapping gently against the previously grimy glass, and for a moment he wondered if it was her namesake dripping from the eaves outside: had someone named their child for a summer rainstorm, a spring shower? In sleep, her thin face was slack and innocent. She stirred slightly when the door closed, but did not wake. John felt a twinge of pity for her, for her parents, her family. They had not cradled an infant in their arms and known that she would grow up to be a streetwalker.

He took a shower and fell asleep in the hard plastic chair. John's dreams were brief and unsettling: he wandered through empty streets beneath a purple sky, while Sherlock Holmes chased him with a sniper rifle. He turned, looked over his shoulder to see the taller man nearly upon him, raising the rifle...

"Sherlock!" John jolted away, suddenly aware of a weight pressing against him.

"Sherlock? Who's bloody Sherlock? Your boyfriend?"

Rain was edging her way onto his lap. She had showered. Her hair was damp.

"What?" John started. "No! God, no, he's not—I haven't got—I'm not—"

"You looked _lonely_, John." She slid further into his lap; Watson scooted backwards on the chair, trying not to touch her in a perverse fashion. "I thought you might want some _company_."

Rain's tone made it quite clear that 'company' was not what she wanted to ply John Watson with.

"Stop!" He seized her elbows. "Come off it, you're far too young to be—"

"Oh, Johnny..." She tried to kiss him. John ushered her away, gently.

"Really, Rain." He said. "Why?"

"Come on," Rain said, and her voice had a pleading quality. "I need money, John Watson." She had put on makeup, lots of it, and cheap perfume. The smell was heady and decidedly unpleasant. "What do I have to do for money?"

"Not this," John said. They packed up their things together, and then John gave her twenty pounds and apologized because it wasn't hardly enough. Rain gave him a thin smile and kissed his cheek and they checked out of the room and went their separate ways on the street corner.

John hailed a cab for the first time in months and sped south, towards Baker Street.

The rain had lessened up a little, and he could see the sun coming through the clouds.

It was turning out to be a nice day, after all.

* * *

><p>Sherlock Holmes was waiting when John entered 221b. There was a lingering manic gleam in his eye, a sort of sparkle that suggested genius (or, John thought, madness). Sherlock was pacing before the window. His footfalls were light.<p>

"Is that a skull?" John gestured to the object in Sherlock's hands. Upon closer inspection, he found that it _was_ a skull, the bone tarnished darkly.

"Oh," Sherlock said, almost flippant. "That. Yes."

"Do you...wander about with skulls often?"

"When I find occasion to, yes." Sherlock paused and fixed John with a steely gaze. His eyes were very pale, glowingly so. "I trust that this isn't a problem."

"Not at all." John lifted the cardboard box in his hands. "My stuff." He said.

"Light packer."

"Haven't got much to pack."

"Good." Sherlock said. "Mrs. Hudson has made up a bedroom for you."

"Great!" John said, with more enthusiasm than he really had. Sherlock showed him to a small bedroom in the rear of the flat; he noted that Sherlock's own room was next door. John did not have much to unpack, and he did so quickly, then opened up the window to air the place out a little more, and went back into the front room.

Sherlock was supine now, sprawled across the sofa. His eyes were closed. A pistol dangled from his hand.

"You alright?" John sat down in one of the chairs. He felt very awkward, like an intruder into someone else's home. Which, in a sense, he was.

"Bored." Sherlock said, and fired at the wall.

John leapt like a cat, his heart pounding.

"_Jesus Christ!"_ He cried. "What the hell?"

Sherlock dropped the pistol. It was smoking gently. He closed his eyes again.

"I'm very bored. It's not good to be bored—very dull, in fact. I need something to _do_."

"How about not shooting up the wall?" John suggested. Sherlock smirked ever so slightly.

"God." John muttered under his breath, "What a whack job."

He picked up a newspaper and began to read, and waited for his heartbeat to return to normal.

**Hoped you like it! Sorry that it's awful and short, but I'm super stressed due to school at the moment, and this was all that I could crank out between studying madly! Thanks for reading thus far! :)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Hey guys, this chapter it going to be a shorter one...but in the next we meet 'the gang' of Scotland Yard! Thanks for reading/reviewing, it's very much appreciated! Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the associated characters.**

Chapter Four

The days fell into a sort of routine at 221b Baker Street. John would wake early and make tea. Sherlock would be, without a doubt, already awake and working in his bedroom. The exact nature of Sherlock's endeavors was not made to clear to John, not the first week and not the second. Nearly a month had passed, and he was still unsure of what Sherlock Holmes did during the day.

It was all very strange. Sherlock would rise early, before dawn, and lock himself in his bedroom. Then, at odd hours, he would don a long coat and sweep out of the flat, returning hours later with muddy shoes and a grim expression upon his face. He would lock himself in his bedroom again, refusing all food or drink for days at a time. John began to wonder if Sherlock Holmes was not some kind of mad criminal. It certainly was beginning to look that way: John had found a severed thumb in the bathroom cabinet once, and several times strangers had appeared at the door, spoken in hushed tones with Holmes, and then gone away again. John became seriously concerned with this matter, but tried to put it out of his mind. He was enjoying the flat very much and did not particularly feel like being booted out for being too nosy.

* * *

><p>This all changed one sunny afternoon in December. Snow had fallen overnight, but the clouds had cleared and the weather, for once, was pleasant. John had taken a walk in the park and returned thirsty. He opened the fridge and searched absentmindedly for a beer, then froze. John went cold with horror.<p>

There was a head in the fridge. A head. _A head. _He gaped.

It was the head of an old man, the eyes blank and milky. The skin was a sort of horrible gray color. Sparse white hair.

"My god." John whispered to himself. "He's a bloody serial killer."

He straightened and stormed towards Sherlock's bedroom, raised his fist and knocked hard on the wooden door.

"Who is it?" Sherlock sounded angry. "John?"

"Open up." John returned, just as loud. Sherlock came to the door and opened it only a few inches, effectively obscuring everything beyond the doorframe.

"What _is _it?" Sherlock said, snappishly. "I'm working."

"On what?" John cried, "Hacking up another body, are you?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What on _earth_..."

"The head in the fridge? Thebloody _thumb _in the bathroom?" John was breathing hard now. "You know who keeps body parts around the house? Serial killers do! Madmen do! Bloody _psychopaths _do!"

"Honestly, John. I wouldn't have thought you'd be so narrow-minded." Sherlock stared at John with brutal indifference. "It's a science experiment. The body parts were obtained from Molly Hooper at St. Bart's morgue. You've met her."

"Oh." John still felt highly suspicious. "It's still madness."

"Hardly, Watson." Sherlock replied somewhat coldly, and closed the door. Watson could see only darkness in the room beyond, perhaps a desk and part of a bed. What on earth, he wondered, could Sherlock Holmes possibly be hiding? Was there a bloody wife and family hidden away in there?

He went into the kitchen and made some tea. In Watson's experience, there were few situations that could not be remedied with a nice cup of tea.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock," Watson called, tramping through the flat in his socks. "There's someone for you at the door."<p>

A silver-haired man had come to the door, fixed Watson with pleading blue eyes, and inquired as to the whereabouts of Sherlock Holmes.

"Did he say his name?"

"No. Silver hair, middle-aged, I've never seen him before..."

"Oh." Sherlock said, and shrugged his coat on. "Good. I'll be back later." And he swept out without further comment.

This was when John's suspicion kicked into overdrive. He hunted around the flat for a while, mentally cataloguing anything of interest, anything strange or out of the ordinary.

Besides the body parts, there were some strange notebooks tied tightly together with twine in the living room, but little else. John did not poke around in the notebooks, nor look any further. He was almost afraid of what he might find.

Could Sherlock be a crime boss? A member of the city's secret police? A mobster? Hit man? All of this seemed unlikely, but then again Sherlock was very mysterious. He could very well be a kingpin of London's criminal underground, and his flatmate would not suspect a thing.

John went on thinking like this for a while, then decided to put it out of his mind. After all, Sherlock's comings and goings were hardly any of his business. When the tall, mysterious man did not arrive at 221b covered with bloodstains or carrying body parts, John decided that he was simply being paranoid. And so things went.

* * *

><p>"Sherlock?" John rapped lightly on Sherlock's bedroom door before remembering that Sherlock had gone out with the silver-haired man. Rain pattered on the windows. John held several socks in his arms: he had been doing laundry and realized that Sherlock's clothes had gotten mixed up with his. Better return them, John figured: the last thing he needed was for Sherlock to accuse him of stealing socks or something.<p>

He went down the hall, rapped lightly on Sherlock's door. There was no answer, of course, and John hadn't expected one, just knocked as a gesture of politeness. John tried the handle. It was unlocked. He pushed gently, opening the door inch by inch, slightly afraid of what he might find on the other side.

_Screw it. _He pushed the door ajar, stepped forwards, and froze.

He had not expected this.

This was more frightening than the head in the fridge or the strange visitors at the door. Much more frightening.

The room was small and plain, spartanly furnished with a bed and cluttered desk. But it was the wall, the wall opposite the door, that caught John's attention and held it.

There was a vast map of London plastered across the entire wall, stretching from corner to corner, from floor to ceiling. Pieced together, in some places, from what appeared to be smaller maps. And scattered across the map, in random places, were pushpins. And stretching between the pushpins were lengths of red string.

A web.

A web of red string, entangling the city of London, and one tiny place in the very middle. Without approaching, John knew the location of the web's center.

It was 221b Baker Street.

* * *

><p><strong>Woo! How's that for thrilling? :) I hope that you enjoyed this chapter! Feel free to reviewcomment/rant about this chapter!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Evening, all! So...in the last chapter, our dear friend Watson discovered some strange happenings around 221b Baker Street. And now we'll meet Lestrade, and Anderson, and Donovan and the rest of the gang! Hope you like it! Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters.**

Chapter Five

When Sherlock reentered the flat later that evening (half past midnight, to be exact), he found John Watson seated in an armchair in the living room, wearing a stoney expression.

"Evening," Sherlock said lightly, shedding his coat and scarf. He seemed weary and did not notice John's glowering face. "Up late, aren't you?"

"Sherlock Holmes." John found it suddenly hard to look Sherlock in the eye. Was he dealing with some kind of madman? Surely he was. There was no other explanation. "Found something interesting today. In your bedroom."

At once, Sherlock froze. His thin face became almost comical in shock: eyes open wide, then narrowing, mouth tightening, eyebrows arching.

"You were in my..."

"That's right," John stood, full of false bravado. He approached Sherlock slowly, ignoring the fact that he was a good several inches shorter. "So who the _bloody hell _are you, Holmes? A terrorist? A serial killer? What?"

Sherlock stood, frozen, his eyes the color of ice. And then he let out a loud, cheerless laugh. John started.

"Terrorist?" Sherlock smirked coldly. "My dear Watson, you certainly have a lot to learn about me."

"Well, it's not as if you've supplied any information!" John cried. Sherlock's smirk faded a little. He indicated that John should return to the armchair; he did. Sherlock settled on the sofa, still wearing a slightly suspicious expression.

"John Watson." He said. "When we first met, I told you several facts about yourself which could have only be gleaned through careful research, correct?"

"Or stalking," John muttered. Sherlock gave him a haughty glare.

"It was deducing, as I proved to you. That's what I do, you see."

"You deduce." John repeated.

"I deduce," Sherlock smirked again. "I notice. I notice things that other people miss, details that fall into the cracks, so to speak. My mind works in a way far different from yours, John, and such talents are highly sought after by higher authorities."

"The military." John whispered.

"Hardly," Sherlock scoffed. "Well, the military police. What was once known as the London Police Force. Scotland Yard's finest detectives have been consulting me for several years now."

"Scotland Yard doesn't exist," John said quickly. "It was disbanded when the military took over."

"And yet they insist on calling themselves the Scotland Yard Detectives."

"And you help them? Like an informant?"

"A consulting detective." Sherlock returned icily. "The only one in the world. I invented the job, you know."

"No," John said. "I don't know. The military doesn't work with civilians."

"I have top security clearance. I'm hardly a civilian, John."

There was silence. John felt breathless, as if he had run for several miles. "Wow."

"Quite."

"_Wow_."

"Yes."

"I thought that you were a madman." John admitted.

Sherlock rose suddenly, his smile warmer now. "Oh, I certainly am a madman, John Watson. Don't you ever forget that."

* * *

><p>And after that, as if by some strange miracle, they were friends. Several days passed like this: Sherlock kept going out at odd hours, and John felt relatively comforted by the thought that his flatmate was not a serial killer or raving lunatic. He had asked about the map and string in Sherlock's bedroom: the 'consulting detective' (John still found that title a bit funny) had explained that they were various crime scenes around the city, part of an ongoing investigation, and then clammed up and refused further discuss the subject.<p>

22b Baker Street no longer felt cold and empty. Most days John would light a fire in the hearth, and read in front of the crackling flames. He did housework and Sherlock hadn't pestered him about the rent yet.

The place was beginning to feel like home.

* * *

><p>Monday morning, dreary. Rain beyond the windows, sirens wailing in the distance. John was boiling water for tea when someone knocked twice at the door. There was a pause between knocks, and John, having been trained by the British Army, recognized this as some kind of code. His suspicions were confirmed when Sherlock appeared moments later, already shrugging on his long coat.<p>

"Where are you off to?" John had not seen him leave in several days, and wondered if this were some sort of new case for Sherlock to 'consult' on.

"Crime scene, I'd expect." Sherlock unlatched the door and opened it. A middle-aged man stood in the hall, hands pushed into the pockets of a blue jacket. His dark hair was streaked silver, but his face was middle-aged at the oldest. He looked greatly worried.

"Sherlock," The man said, "We've got another body."

He paused to cast a suspicious glance in John's direction. Sherlock gestured towards John.

"John Watson, my flatmate. Former British Army medic." Then to the silver-haired man, "John, this is Detective Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard."

"Hello," John said.

"Pleasure," Lestrade said cheerlessly. He turned to Sherlock. "Look, the forensics unit is hung up on a suicide in East London, won't be at the scene for hours. It's a bum that's turned up, so they won't hurry over."

"Well," Sherlock flung a scarf around his neck. "We'll have to wait."

"Wait." Curiosity tugged at John's mind. "I've been trained as a doctor. Seen a body or two in my lifetime. I could assist you."

It was a bold offer: a simple Army medic against the powers of Scotland Yard and the British government, but Lestrade looked, for all his initial suspicion, grateful.

"That's a good idea," He said. "The squad car is outside—"

"No," Sherlock broke in, sounding disturbed. "John's not properly trained. He doesn't need to get involved, anyways."

"It's just one body," Lestrade said. He muttered something to Sherlock, but John could not tell what he was saying. Sherlock finally consented, and John fetched his jacket, and they all went through the door and down to the street.

Mrs. Hudson saw them out, and waved cheerfully. In this gloomy world, John thought, the old lady was something of a beacon of light.

* * *

><p>They climbed into a dark unmarked police car (John sat in the backseat) and drove steadily north; the streets began to look increasingly familiar, and after a while John realized that they were heading into Seven Sisters. He recognized every store, every cafe and fast food joint and...<p>

"I stayed here," John said, peering through the window. The plain, scarred stucco-and-brick building, the blinking neon strip club sign...they had become strangers to him during his stay at 221b.

"Well, the body wasn't found in the hotel itself," DI Lestrade explained. There was a tired quality to his face and blue eyes. "Some of the strippers found it in the alleyway next to the hotel."

"Oh." John said. He knew that Seven Sisters, like most of the run-down areas of London, was hardly a high-class neighborhood, but he certainly had not heard about _murders _ occurring in its alleys and side streets.

They climbed out of the car; a light, misty rain was falling. Lestrade and Sherlock grumbled about evidence being washed away and contaminated. John followed them to a cordoned-off section of alleyway: police tape and soldiers kept onlookers away. Not that there were any onlookers: locals hurried past, clearly frightened by the heavy presence of the police. London's cops had once been kind and just, but now people knew about the rampant corruption within the force. Rumors were that it went all the way to the top. John didn't doubt it.

"She wasn't staying at the hotel, and the strip club owners haven't seen her. One of their girls noticed her hanging around this area, and they suspected prostitution," Lestrade informed Sherlock. He lifted the crime scene tape, and they walked in a group towards the body.

A woman. Young. Her hair was dark and greasy, fanned around her head. Pale eyes fixed on the rainy sky, face stiff with terror and death. John saw the bullet wound, blood darkening her skimpy shirt, but he was already wheeling around, clapping his hands to his face and mouth.

"Oh, God, no..."

"What?" Sherlock gave him an airy stare. "I assumed that you were accustomed to working with corpses."

"It's not that." Sickness welled, bitter, in John's throat—he thought that he might vomit. "This girl—I knew her."

Silence. Sherlock and Lestrade raised their eyebrows almost in unison. The DI shot John a disapproving glance before turning to the body. They thought that he had been with a prostitute, John realized.

"I didn't...not like _that_," He said weakly. "It was raining one night. She offered her...services...and I told her no, said that she could use my hotel room if she wanted. I checked out the next morning. We never..._did _anything."

Lestrade appeared unconvinced. He gave John a slightly stiff smile, then began to discuss the death with Sherlock. John steeled himself, reminded himself that he had seen plenty of dead friends and neighbors before. Then Sherlock gave him some gloves, and they began to examine the body.

* * *

><p>Obviously, Rain (if that was even her real name, John thought bitterly) had not heeded John Watson's warning. She was wearing minimal clothing more suited for the beach or a tropical climate than London's cold streets. There were bruises on her legs, a red mark on her neck. John knew what this meant. Rain had found someone to take her up on her offer of "services".<p>

"She was shot with a small caliber bullet," John said. "Not at close range." He paused, then looked up, judging the rooftops. "It was a sniper who killer her, most likely."

"Great." Lestrade said unenthusiastically. He pushed his hands into his pockets again. Sherlock, meanwhile, was slinking around the crime scene like a black cat. The single soldiers guarding the area cast him a suspicious glance.

"She hasn't been here long," He announced. "Came from Northern England, probably seeking employment. She saw a client last night. I would question him, Lestrade."

"That's going to be difficult," The DI said shortly, "Seeing as we've no idea who the john is."

Sherlock bent close to the body and inhaled sharply; he rose and turned to Lestrade.

"Try the Law Offices of Becker and Smith."

"Becker and Smith..." Lestrade paused, then shook his head. "No can do, Holmes. The offices burnt down two weeks ago—they suspected arson, remember?"

"Nonetheless," Sherlock said. "Ask around."

"Right." If Lestrade doubted Sherlock's deduction, he didn't say so. "Right. Well, the boys will see to it that forensics gets here."

"Eventually, I'm sure." Sherlock said. "Come along, John."

And he led a still-shocked John out of the alleyway. "We'll take a taxi home, thank you."

Lestrade drove away with newfound conviction while Sherlock and John flagged down a taxi. They hurried into the backseat. John still felt sick and hollow. Silence reined as they drove south, towards the city proper. Sherlock stared through the window, eyes narrowed. He seemed to be thinking very hard about something.

Finally, as the rain began to fall harder, Sherlock spoke.

"You're either a good Samaritan or an excellent liar."

"Sorry, what?"

"That prostitute. You said that you took her in one night."

"I did."

"Why?"

"It was raining."

"That's hardly an answer."

"I know how it feels to be alone." John replied shortly. He was unwilling to say anything more. Sherlock turned away from the window and looked at John. In the dim cab, his blue-gray eyes were sharp and bright.

"A bleeding heart," Sherlock said. There was a measured amount of distaste in his voice.

John experienced a brief flash of anger, more for Rain's memory than for himself. "At least I've got one."

It was a juvenile jab, and they both knew it. Silence fell again, but could have sworn that he saw Sherlock smirk before turning away.

* * *

><p>Tea. John liked tea. The smell of steam rising from the kettle, the comforting hiss of the stove's blue flames, tipping milk in and watching it billow in creamy clouds...<p>

Yes, tea was nice.

He drank two cups at 221b, almost glad that Sherlock had disappeared into his bedroom/office/lair for the time being. It left John plenty of time to think things over.

A consulting detective. The only one in the world.

* * *

><p>Sherlock appeared an hour later, and commenced pacing around the kitchen. He watched John suspiciously for a while. Then he leaned against the counter and regarded John with narrowed eyes.<p>

"You're a funny man, John Watson."

John stirred sugar into his tea.

"A man who joins the country's biggest killing machine takes a prostitute in off the street like a lost dog. A man who has been trained to take lives has also worked to save them." Again, with those piercing gray eyes. They were deep in an unsettling way.

"Yeah, well," John stared hard at his mug of tea. "We all have our pasts, don't we?"

"Indeed we do." Sherlock said. "The Army wasn't good to you, was it?"

"The Army is the Army." John said shortly. "Always has been and always will be."

"You left for a reason."

"I was wounded."

"I _know _that," Sherlock scoffed. "That's the _obvious reason_, John. Injured. A war hero. But there aren't heroes anymore, are there? Just sad, broken little men looking for the pieces of themselves that they've left behind."

This ignited within John a small fire, somewhere in the region of his chest, and he all but flinched. "What about you, Sherlock? Never left unfinished business?"

"Oh, John," Sherlock turned on his heels, grinning sharply; there was a certain sadness behind that smile. "More than you can imagine."

* * *

><p><strong>Woo! How'd you like it? :o Please reviewcomment/tell me what you think! **


	6. Chapter 6

**Hello, dear readers! Here's another chapter for you all! Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the characters.**

Chapter Six

And so began a strange and mysterious relationship. John Watson, the doctor, and Sherlock Holmes, the scientist. John would follow Sherlock to crime scenes around London, usually at odd hours, and confirm a cause of death. After three visits to lonely alleyways and weedy vacant lots, John began to suspect that he was doing someone else's job.

"Isn't there a forensics team?" He asked Sherlock as they trudged through a dark train-yard. DI Lestrade walked a few yards ahead, his weapon drawn. "I know that there is. They should be investigating this, not me." He nearly added _I don't know anything_, but refrained. After all, John had been well-trained. He knew his stuff. His medical stuff, at least. Lately, it seemed that he knew less and less about civilian life.

"I don't trust _forensics_," Sherlock spat scornfully.

"Because they won't work with him." Lestrade turned around and gave John a thin smile. "They don't trust him."

"They shouldn't." Sherlock said. He pushed his hands into his pockets and trudged ahead. John followed, trying in vain to put the puzzle pieces together.

1. Fact: Sherlock clearly disliked the military government.

2. Fact: Sherlock Holmes was a consulting detective who worked with the police.

3. Fact: He 'consulted' with the police when they were out of their league (which was, according to the man himself, always).

4. Fact: They went to crime scenes in the middle of the night, or early morning, or late in the afternoon. Sherlock locked himself in his office/bedroom daily and worked in secret. And he didn't trust forensics. And they didn't trust him.

Conclusion: Sherlock Holmes was up to something. John was no genius, but he could deduce this much. Lestrade was obviously in on it: the older Inspector seemed to tolerate Holmes when no one else would. He also appeared to trust him.

"Here!" Lestrade called, ushering them over to a body. A woman, middle-aged, with reddish hair. She had been shot in the chest: long distance, John noticed immediately. His spine tickled a little.

"Sniper." Another fact: this was the second sniper-felled body that he had examined. Before bending closer to the corpse, John snapped on a pair of rubber gloves. "Yep. Sniper."

He looked up in time to see Sherlock and Lestrade sharing a desperate, dark glance.

Okay, Lestrade was _definitely _in on it. Whatever 'it' was. John stood, removing his gloves.

"She was shot from a distance by a sniper. I would say—"

"There." Sherlock was already in motion, whirling around. He pointed to the roof of a distant shed, a long dark building at the edge of the yard.

"He shot from the roof."

"Or she," Lestrade added fairly. "Could be a woman."

Sherlock gave him a withering glare but said nothing. Then he turned on his heel and was gone, striding into the gloom. John and Lestrade watched him walk away, both silent.

"He's a funny one," Lestrade said. "But I trust him, you know."

"Why?" The word was out of John's mouth before he could think it over. "Why do you trust him?"

Lestrade's face darkened. "He gets work done while the rest of the force is staring at the wall."

"That includes you."

"Precluding myself and Sally Donovan." Lestrade said with conviction. "Sally's good, too, but she hates Sherlock. Won't work a case with him for all the tea in China."

"I wonder why," John muttered; then, seeing Lestrade's surprised expression, "He's a bit odd, isn't he?"

"He's a bloody genius." Lestrade replied, and gave John an encouraging smile. "Couple more months and you'll be working alongside him like any other."

John doubted this, but Sherlock was his flatmate and they were getting along alright, so he didn't disagree aloud. "Right."

"Trust me." Lestrade said. John decided that he had better trust Lestrade, because they were standing alone in the middle of a dark, deserted train yard, so he just smiled thinly and nodded and tried to look convinced and trusting. It must have worked, because Lestrade gave him a mild smile and did not speak until Sherlock returned several minutes later.

"Nothing," Sherlock said shortly.

"Nothing?" Lestrade frowned. "Nothing? Are you sure?"

Sherlock did not reply; instead he swept away, long coat flapping behind him, and headed out of the train yard. John and Lestrade followed behind, the DI mumbling under his breath. He didn't seem upset, though, that no evidence had been recovered. When they reached the main road, Lestrade called the murder in anonymously.

This tickled John's suspicion further: when they had examined other bodies, the police had already been notified. Something about this woman's corpse was different. The police didn't yet know. So how did Lestrade?

* * *

><p>"This Lestrade character," John said as they climbed into the back of a cab. "What's his story?"<p>

"Lestrade's a good detective." Sherlock said flippantly. "Better than the rest of the idiots at Scotland Yard. He's been at it for a while."

"It?"

Sherlock squinted. "Homicides."

"What about...?" John gestured through the window, towards the grimy dark city. A light rain began to fall, misting under the street lamps.

"What about what, exactly?"

"These murders," John hissed, unable to keep quiet any longer. "These bodies in alleyways and train yards and side streets. And the police aren't involved, except Lestrade, and he's just called in the latest one anonymously. And the police don't know who I am, or that I'm working for you. So what exactly are we _doing_, Sherlock?"

There was a long pause; Sherlock gazed through the window, his pale eyes unreflective. At long last, he spoke quietly and quickly.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade was not the one to hire me. It was someone much higher up in the government, someone who recognized my genius for what it was and decided to take advantage of it. The police, as I'm sure you know, are little more than a military branch now. They've gotten stupider, if you ask me."

John bristled at this subtle dig at the military but did not comment.

"Anyways," Sherlock continued, "I was passed around, from Inspector to Inspector. They all claimed that I was a show-off, a know-it-all, as if we were children. Lestrade was willing and able to work with me. His forensics team turned against me: they didn't like someone else stepping in to do their job. Lestrade's detective, Sally Donovan, she dislikes me as well. Won't work with me willingly. Calls me 'the freak'." He smirked. "She detests the fact that I'm more intelligent, I'm sure."

"That's harsh."

"That's the truth." Sherlock countered. "I've worked with Lestrade for a while now: a year, maybe more. We make a 'good team'." He scoffed this last bit, as if he did not believe it.

"That explained almost nothing." John said.

Sherlock turned away.

"I shouldn't have involved you, that much is clear."

"I worked for the government for a long time," John said loudly. "I know what it entails these days."

"No," Sherlock turned suddenly to face John; his eyes were flashing sharply in the dim light, a startling gray. They were bright but cold, burning with fierce intensity. "No, you haven't got the _slightest idea_, John Watson, about what it means to work for the British government."

And then he turned away. John was left with an eerie prickling sensation, a creeped-out feeling that buzzed around behind his eyeballs. He watched as Sherlock stared through the cab's window: the man's eyes were fixed on the passing buildings and sky, but it was obvious that his thoughts were far away. Clearly, Sherlock Holmes was a mad genius—but a genius nonetheless.

John felt the familiar lurch in his stomach, the cascade of chills that skittered across his back. He knew this feeling, knew it from battle and medical school and the medic's field hospital. He knew what it was, and the fact that he was feeling it here, now, on a rainy street in London beneath a blue-gray afternoon sky...that scared him.

Because the feeling was more than excitement or the thrill of adrenaline. It was much more than that.

It was the feeling of danger.

And John liked it.

* * *

><p><strong>Sorry that this took so long to get out for you all!<strong>


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey everyone! Here's another chapter—hope that you like it! Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or any of the associated characters!**

Chapter Seven

_Milk, eggs, bread...jam..._John wandered the isles of the local Tesco, a plastic shopping basket in his hands, deep in thought. Since their little jaunt to the train yard, Sherlock had become more open, more involved. He ventured from the confines of his bedroom office more, sometimes joining John for meals. The man never ate much—digesting slowed down his thought process, apparently. John dropped a tin of canned peaches into the basket. There was still a guarded element to Sherlock Holmes, a certain dark quality that could not be overlooked. Clearly, the man was hiding something. Still, anyone who was good by Scotland Yard's standards was alright with John.

He paid for the food, then walked outside into a cool, dry dusk. Clouds purpled the eastern skies. A deep chill permeated the air. John strolled north, towards Baker Street; there was a light, brisk smell to the air, something wintry. One by one, the street lights came on. John swung the shopping bags from his left hand, humming quietly as he walked. Funny. It wasn't in John's nature to hum.

He was about to round the corner and enter Baker Street when a sudden hand descended upon his shoulder, fast and hard. John wheeled about, plastic bags swinging madly. His Army training kicked in immediately: hands up, ready to strike.

Too late.

Someone seized the front of his jacket, dragging him into an alleyway. John aimed a fierce kick at his captor: he struck something hard (a shin?) and heard a wheeze of pain. Struggling, his blows connecting with someone's stomach, someone's side. John caught a glimpse of two men, of camouflage.

Soldiers.

In an instant, he was up against the alley's brick wall, a man's hand clenched against his jacket. A thin, cruel face. Another face behind the first, this one wider, pockmarked.

"John Watson?"

"Who the hell are you?" He hissed. The plastic bags had been rent asunder; groceries strewn about the alleyway.

"Doctor John Watson?" A hard, brutal voice.

"Yes."

The two men exchanged glances. They were military. Or police. Not much of a difference these days.

The second man hurried away, to the end of the alleyway, and began speaking into a handheld radio. John heard bursts of static between voices.

"Is your current place of residence 221b, Baker Street?"

He kept silent.

The soldier thrust John roughly against the wall, eyes narrowing, cold.

"_Is _it?"

"Yes."

He had withstood this, in the Army. Worse than this.

The second man returned, sliding the radio into his utility belt. They exchanged quiet words. John fought the urge to squirm: he hated people touching him like this, like they were about to kill him. The first soldier turned to John, jaw locked.

"You're free to go. Be careful where you tread from now on, hear?"

"Where are these orders coming from?" The words were out of John's mouth before he could stop them. He regretted them, wished that he could retract them like so much cigarette smoke being sucked back into one's open mouth.

The second soldier turned slowly, deadly.

"Straight from the top, _Captain_."

John felt a chill skitter down his spine, unbidden. He nodded slowly, stiffly, as the two soldiers turned to leave. They sauntered through the alleyway with a casual gait, careless. One turned at the mouth of the alley, smirking icily.

"Sorry 'bout your groceries, _Captain_."

He did not like the way they said that—Captain—like it was an insult. John waited until they were gone to stoop and collected the fallen groceries.

* * *

><p>"You're late," Sherlock said when John staggered back into 221 ten minutes later, holding the food to his chest. "Later than usual."<p>

"Had a run in," John muttered. He walked into the kitchen and dropped the groceries on the counter, feeling strangely disconnected. His mind was whirling: who the _bloody hell _would have given those two men orders to harass John in a dark alleyway at night? No one in the military, he was sure. Or...

Maybe it was an old friend, playing a sick joke. No. Impossible. John hadn't made many friends in the service, at least none that he planned on keeping. It must be the military, then. The government.

Someone was watching him.

They knew where he lived.

More specifically, they knew where Sherlock and John lived.

_They've been watching the flat. _

John strolled into the living room, attempting to appear casual. "Sherlock, have you noticed anyone..._funny_...hanging around lately?"

"Besides you, you mean?" Sherlock smirked into the evening paper, which he was reading at an alarming rate. John had not bee previously aware that his flatmate was capable of such humor.

"No." He sat down in the dark armchair, stretching his legs awkwardly. He felt cold. "Someone outside the flat, maybe? In the street?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Sherlock said. "Of course not."

"Are you sure?"

"I notice everything, John, every second of every day. Do you honestly think that a stalker would have escaped my vision?"

John sighed quietly. "Some men stopped me in the alleyway down the street. Soldiers. Maybe police officers. Probably higher up. Military."

Sherlock did not glance up. "The police are cracking down on street crime in the area. Don't you read the news?"

"They were better trained." He recalled their deft movements, their cold eyes. "If not Special Operations, then government—"

Sherlock set down the paper. "Government?"

"Maybe," John felt a damp patch on his jacket: the milk carton, wet with precipitation, had leaked. "Probably, they..."

But Sherlock was staring straight ahead. He seemed greatly disturbed. "What did they say to you?"

"They said 'be careful where you tread from now on'."

"Anything else?"

John felt the familiar prickle of suspicion at the back of his neck. "That the orders came straight from the top."

"_Christ_." Sherlock said, loudly_. _"Dammit."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"_What_?"

"Nothing."

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock stood slowly, the paper sliding from his lap. "I need to make a phone call."

He turned and swept from the room, leaving John alone with the evening news and a heap of groceries.

* * *

><p><strong>So...how did you like it? Mystery? Intrigue? Can you guess who the next appearance will be? Please review and let me know if you liked itwhat I can improve upon!**


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